Chapter 7 #4
Amazingly, though, after that, the whole rest of the shoot proceeds the same way.
Pete makes eight different kinds of game hen, explaining each seasoning mixture, dry rub, or saucing choice as he applies it; he talks the audience through how much meat to allow per person, and why; he lays out how easily everything he’s doing can be done to a regular-sized chicken, and how to adjust the cooking times and quantities.
He makes jokes—only two or three, but still.
He doesn’t forget any words, or how to use a stove, and when, as he’s finishing prep on the last bird, he knocks a jar of Calabrian chiles onto the floor, he smiles and shrugs and says, “My dad always says it’s not a holiday until you break at least one thing, and better it be a dish—or, in this case, a jar of chiles—than your spirit.
Good advice, right?” And then he just puts the chicken in the oven, and cleans up, and starts working on an assortment of finishing sauces.
No panic, or series of Three Stooges-esque subsequent mishaps.
Just the calm, regulated equanimity of a seasoned culinary professional.
And then the hens are coming out of the oven, and they’re all congratulating each other on a wildly successful shoot, and people are streaming in, alerted through the interoffice network of buzz that all the food is ready.
It’s nearly five, so somebody grabs a couple of bottles of wine, and somebody else pulls some other leftover dishes from the fridge, and suddenly it’s a party.
Not just any party—it is, somehow, the best party Ben has ever been to.
No part of him wants to step back against the wall and observe instead of participate; he knows these people, likes them.
It’s easy to joke and laugh with them, interesting to hear about their thoughts and hobbies and opinions on the various dishes, and whenever he finds himself drawing a conversational blank, Pete is somehow right there, picking up the thread as if Ben handed it off neatly instead of dropping it.
He eats a plate of food so good he wishes he could box it up and send it home to Michigan, with a smug little note that said something like, Sorry to say it, but: better than yours.
It’s almost enough to distract him from the weight of what he’s been trying not to see.
It’s almost enough. But the truth is, nothing does distract him, not the fun, not the party, not even the ease of slipping into an unthinking double act with Pete, the way they have been, lately, every once in a while.
Ben has made it this long on the strength of not seeing the truth, of closing his eyes, of looking away.
But now that he’s seen it, there is no erasing the knowledge, no force within him strong enough to wrestle it back, and no box in his mind large enough to contain it, even if he could.
Ben is in love with Pete. He thinks there’s a real chance he has been in love with Pete more or less since the day they met, not that he would have called it that at the time.
It is, he suspects, going to become something of a problem, and he doubts there’s anything that could distract him, now that he’s looked at it. Now that he knows.
Miranda tests him on this, though, by selecting this critical moment to stick her head in through the front door.
The room goes dead quiet.
“Hello,” Miranda sings out. She doesn’t do them the courtesy of stepping fully into the room, although Ben’s not sure if that’s out of haughtiness or fear; the vibes have shifted from cheerful camaraderie to barely contained hatred with whiplash-inducing speed.
Everyone glares as Miranda continues, “I heard you were down here carrying on—just as well, because I have exciting news! Your little show has done so well that we’ve booked you for an appearance on Late Night Live with Brian O’Malley, Pete.
Nice juicy timeslot, too; you’ll be doing a little cooking demo, right at the top of his first hour. It’s Friday night, and—”
“Sorry,” Pete says; his face has drained of blood, and for a second, Ben considers lobbing a frying pan at Miranda for undoing all his hard work.
“This Friday?” When Miranda nods, serene, Pete continues, “And you mean—like—the Late Night Live? The nationally syndicated live talk show? I don’t… Miranda, I can’t—”
“Oh, dear,” Miranda says, her voice flat, her eyes dead. “Is that going to make things difficult for you, Pete? You know how I’d hate that.”
Ben narrows his eyes at her, trying to puzzle her out.
There’s something weird here, something personal, but he can’t seem to work out what.
God knows Pete’s no help—every time Ben’s tried to tiptoe around the topic, ask a few subdued questions, Pete’s said something vague and immediately changed the subject.
True to form, Pete grimaces now and, with the air of a drowning man, says, “Look, can we not—it’s just a bad idea, okay? I won’t be good at that! Let Ben do it, that’s a good idea, he never forgets how to say the word ‘pineapple’—”
“They don’t want Ben,” Miranda says, with a bright, false smile. “Just you. It’ll be fun! I’ll send you the details. Bye!”
She drifts out with all the happy indifference of a hurricane, heedless of the wreckage she’s left behind her.